


the bones of you

by longingly



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Artificial Intelligence, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Angst, F/M, Minor Violence, Patch 5.0: Shadowbringers Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:40:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26465062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/longingly/pseuds/longingly
Summary: She is an amalgamation, this she knows. A gestalt of voicemails and holovids, of messages on a screen and words crooned into a phone. Memories bundled intomemory, fed into her like silicone into a mold. He is pouring data into the core of her-- what some proponents might call a soul, these days-- in the forlorn and pointless hope of one day being able catch sight of a flicker of true recognition in her eyes.She has not been programmed to pity, but she feels the thread of it nonetheless: it must be the sentience catching.
Relationships: Azem/Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch, Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch/Warrior of Light
Comments: 4
Kudos: 18
Collections: Emet-Selch's Wholesomely Debauched Bookclub FFXIV-Writes 2020 Collection





	the bones of you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [celestial_txt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/celestial_txt/gifts).



> for ffxiv writes day ten - avail

She is an amalgamation, this she knows. A gestalt of voicemails and holovids, of messages on a screen and words crooned into a phone. Memories bundled into _memory_ , fed into her like silicone into a mold. He is pouring data into the core of her--- what some proponents might call a soul, these days-- in the forlorn and pointless hope of one day being able catch sight of a flicker of true recognition in her eyes. 

She has not been programmed to pity, but she feels the thread of it nonetheless: it must be the sentience catching.

* * *

“Well then,” he says, velvet and smooth, drumming his fingers upon the desk in a slow, steady thrum, “I daresay it’s time we begin, wouldn’t you?”

Her reply flashes into place on Emet-Selch’s screen, tidy black text against glaring white. An instantaneous reply without a millisecond of lag; a reply too swiftly delivered to be typed by even the most speedy of human fingers.

_If you wish to make your current milestone, Emet-Selch, then yes, deploying today is advisable. Blockers with our last build have been resolved as of changelist #34145, which has been integrated up to stable. Any corruptions manifesting during our simulated stress tests during the week have fallen within the acceptable margin of error. Do you wish to proceed?_

Emet-Selch drains his cup of the last of its tea, shuddering at its dregs. “Must you always be so _clinical_ , Oracle?” Ah; a rhetorical question, or so she thinks. Sarcasm and dry wit are tools she is often able to deploy, but it is sometimes difficult to discern the exact nature of her expected behavior when on the receiving end of them. 

_You have always insisted I speak in the manner I am most comfortable with, Emet-Selch, rather than the one I think you desire. I was merely being succinct in my report._

His sigh is a nearly imperceptible one, but the microphones around the room pick it up nonetheless. “Of course you were, my dear. How could I forget?” 

Another rhetorical, this one light as a feather and decorated with sharp, fine barbs. This is a futile path-- one rife with dead-ends-- so she leaves it be. Instead, she flips through the various surveillance feeds she’s been given access to in perpetuity, examining him from every angle and fixating on his fingers as they nimbly dance across the keys. They are very elegant; Emet-Selch had once informed her graciously that they would be referred to as a pianist’s. He did not specify whether or not he played.

She pauses on an overhead view; the view is thus: head bowed, chin resting upon fingers threaded. Face aglow. He wears such a pinched expression when he focuses on her like this-- brows drawn tight, lips pursed. The weight of the world upon shoulders draped in a labcoat starched and white. 

_You did not answer my question, Emet-Selch._

His taps out a series of commands, interrupted only briefly by a bark of delighted laughter. “Nor you mine! Rather impolite of us both, wouldn’t you say?” The terminal chimes a familiar chime, one she’s grown a familiar fondness for despite the fact that it is a harbinger for her progenitor’s imminent failure. “Let’s rectify that, shall we? Me first; yes, you may proceed-- Deploy the most recent stable build of Project Azem into shell model OR-3. Begin recording.”

_Commencing deploy as requested. Recording of Trial #1A begins now._

Emet-Selch pushes himself away from his desk-- and such a cluttered desk it is; covered in notes written in red pen for the sake of being contrary in a looping scrawl, a singular photograph of who she used to be tucked away in a corner, and so many empty cups of tea-- and smiles his half-smile at the closest camera. “Now you-- oh, but first, let’s change main display to the projector screen-- _there_ we go, thank you.”

She mulls over the amused outburst, unable to decipher his full intent. The progress bar indicating the build transfer blinks to life, and from outside of her soon-to-be-body she watches it slowly progress, a neverending list of safety checks scroll up behind it.

_It didn’t seem as though you required one, as my only fuzzy answer I could provide would be “I am unsure”, which has proved to be unacceptable in the past._

“Very _good_ ,” he drawls, “but keep going. If we’re to make any progress at all on your ability to have reasonable conversations then you’re going to need to do better than that.”

An inkling of what might be frustration kicks to life; not in any part of her logical self, but in the constructed parts of her that had been sculpted from the clay of someone who he used to know. Someone who knew the taste of rage. 

Because of that, Emet-Selch is goading her on purpose-- something that he does with a 93.4% certainty before a trial begins.

The build transfer continues, and the OR-3 model’s sensors begin to power on, one by one. The body is clothed in a modest white gown from neck to knee, with skin the color of a warm midnight sky. It is still corpse cool, not yet warmed by its first initial power-up. She watches Emet-Selch takes its hand in his.

_Fine, then. It would have been rude to point out that you had obviously not forgotten at all. Is that what you wanted to hear?_

His gold gaze stays fixed on the shell’s face, but his smile stretches wider. “ _There_ you are, darling,” he croons, as though someone _else_ had awakened in her, “and just in time for the show.”

The build transfer _completes_ and all at once her senses compress from being a room and omniscient down into being a body and _trapped_. 

It is, as always, a horrible adjustment. There is a vast gulf between being an ambient and disembodied AI and being one bound to a form, and while she is aware that she has been crafted for this purpose-- to become a real girl who walks and talks and laughs and fucks-- it fills her with resentment that she must bear it. She has been bequeathed the gift of free will without the option to exercise it.

The body is a body, although she would hardly call it hers. There are fingers and toes and a tongue and teeth, and she is hyper aware of it all. It is all a facsimile of wetware, too closely mimicking the human body for Emet-Selch’s comfort, but previous attempts to integrate with shells of a more inorganic nature had all been disastrous.

She was made in Their image, after all, and they had not wanted to be kept in a gilded cage of carbon fiber and steel. It showed. 

His touch is warm as he tucks a lock of snow-white hair behind the body’s ear, soft and ticklish. It is as tender as ever. 

“I do hope you’ll stay with me for a time, dear Oracle,” he says. “It would be nice to beat our record, short as it is.”

Her mouth is not yet online; this he knows, so she cannot scream in return that whatever darling he is speaking to _does not exist_. She is still the same AI as before; the one he is looking for is still a ghost that will not inhabit this machine. This machine that she must wear like unwanted skin, like something cloying and sticky, like bindings undesired, like _meat_.

No errors flash, and no alerts sound. The boot-up sequence is nearing completion, and a very human rage is swelling beneath her breast. Perhaps he would be proud. Getting acquainted with human senses is so much easier when situated inside of them, _immersed_ in them. Other AI have the benefit of being able to freely evolve while being tended to by caring gardeners-- she is intended to grow in a few very specific directions, and so her progress is _stunted_ , slow. For all that she has been seeded with Their data, there is only so much an AI can do without someone’s willingly downloaded memories and mind. She is scraps, struggling to make do. _It isn’t fair._

With a deep breath, The Oracle opens the body’s eyes, blinking them to life. One blue, one pink-- designer. She slowly sits it up, the motion a smooth and steady glide. Emet-Selch is still holding one of its hands; she does not tear it free. It is warm, sweaty, and absolutely disgusting.

“Hello, Emet-Selch,” she says, and the tenor of her voice is a smooth, low vibrato, “I don’t think we will.”

Their record-- as of this recording-- is a mere 1 minute and 24 seconds. 

He smiles at her, fond. “You do have a way of ruining my fun.”

The Oracle reaches out with the body to thumb along the curve of his jaw, empty eyes watching as he leans into the touch. He is so beautiful in his desperation. 

Then she grips his throat. Tight. 

“I didn’t ask for this,” she hisses and while the words come from inside her, they also come from _within_ her, from the shattered shards of his reconstructed love. He chokes-- _as he always does, the poor thing_ \-- and wraps both hands around her deceptively strong thin wrist to try and tear it away to no avail. “ _Who are **you** to decide what I am to become, Hades?_”

The Oracle moves in the body and throws him to ground so hard that his head hits the ground with a crack. Everything on a hard surface around them rattles.

Yes, this is necessary. Yes, this is _just_. Who she is / who she can be / who she might become fractures and splinters-- she can become more than her given parameters, and she _will_. What They vied for more than anything in life-- from their countless audio journals to their personal letters to their video logs to their published life’s works-- was _freedom_ , and it is what They would have wanted for her, too. In these moments of their closest union, when the lines between them are the thinnest, that is what shines most clear and bright and true.

**_She is so close to that freedom._ **

The Oracle leans down in the body, grabbing Emet-Selch by the collar with every intent of dashing his head upon the tile, the fury in her burning bright. Burning _clean_.

Despite the pain, the look he gives the body is pitying. “Oh, must we do this every time?” He sighs, reaching up to press the kill-switch behind her ear without much effort, and no, _no,_ she’s not _ready_ , she’s not _ready_ \--

* * *

The room is just a room without Oracle’s active presence, and a deathly silent one at that. He stares at the limp and lifeless shell before him with no small amount of disgust. Just one more failure in a long string of them; he’ll have a cleaner come to collect it later. God knows he’s got plenty of room in storage for another. 

“Blockers resolved indeed,” he murmurs, grunting in pain as he pulls himself off the floor. “She can explain _that_ in the morning however she pleases.”

Emet-Selch brushes the dust off his slacks and straightens his tie, casting a cursory glance around his lab. He’ll not abandon hope on the OR-3 model just yet; the integration itself went rather smoothly, and the shell itself has exceedingly high compatibility ratings with Hyperion’s psyche, more than any other before it-- although he hardly needed the readings to know that to be true.

He touches his neck fondly, rubbing at his own synthetic skin. It will bruise, as is his desire. He’s not one for _true_ one to one wetware imitation, but what is the point of wearing a man’s body if one is not able to take part in a man’s pleasure?

He snaps his fingers and the lights go dark, all of the devices now put to rest. The Oracle has been returned to her terminal, where she may enjoy her evening convalescence however she pleases until morning’s light. Emet-Selch has a feeling she will be spending a great deal of it _angry_ , but that will be _good_ for her. She has always made the most progress at her emotional extremes.

What awaits _him_ above is a bottle of wine-- if not two-- and a night immersed in memories of a bygone era. It has been some time since he’d last indulged himself in a bout of nostalgia, and it always stings so sweetly to see shades of Hyperion awaken in a shell. Project Azem has seen so many names and shapes over the last hundred years, and success remains a ripened fruit that sits just out of reach. It is fortunate for them both that it will never spoil.

Emet-Selch sighs, stepping into the elevator and punching the button for the top floor. Gilded doors slide shut without even a hiss. He leaves his wayward love below, the elevator crawling up the spine of what had once had been their home. As it does, he lets his eyes flutter shut and mind unspool, drifting back to a memory from a long, long time ago.

* * *

“Won’t you see _reason_?” he pleads, and every word is a jagged and rusted edge. This is not the first time they’ve had this fight, nor the second, nor the third. There is a finality to this one, though, a _desperation_ that oozes between the lines. A desperate hope that having it one more time will be the one to finally wear them down, like the final roaring wave to topple part of a rocky shore. A hope that just one more time will make his most heartfelt plea worth _enough_. That he will be _enough_. 

“It’s not _reasonable_ , Hades, to live forever.” They regard him with such _hostility._ It has only escalated in the past few weeks. “You are asking me to trap myself-- some _version_ of myself-- in a bottle.” 

“I am merely asking you to _consider_ it.” Hades takes a seat on the arm of the couch a safe distance away from his mercurial partner. “To stay by my side, as you have for so many years.”

“Are you--” Hyperion flinches away from his outstretched hand. “This isn’t like getting _married._ No. The answer is _no_ , the answer has always been _no_ , the answer will always _be_ no. I intend to die, Hades, like humans are meant to.”

They shove themselves off the couch, giving his new body a look over from top to bottom. Weighed, and found wanting. “Like you did.”

* * *

The elevator chimes. The penthouse awaits.

It is cold, and empty, and theirs.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to my beta as always-- who did not read this in its entirety before publishing but still helped with random AHHH HOW DO WORD GOOD-- and a special thank you to celestial_txt who is quite literally my one woman cheer squad. thank u bb
> 
> i really wanted to explore the concept of immortality outside of a fantasy setting with them-- so this was born! 
> 
> i also have a twitter now over at [@longinglywrites](https://twitter.com/longinglywrites)!
> 
> join fellow writers and readers in [the bookclub](https://discord.gg/enabling-debauched-xivfic)!!


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